let nothing you dismay
by egelantier
Summary: If he wakes Roberto up, he knows, Roberto will surface apologetic, self-deprecating, embarrassed.


_And so our investigation is drawing to a close, and I believe we'll have an opportunity to finish our latest game soon_ , Hiraga types, and signs off. He rubs his hands briskly, trying to warm up his fingers; the abbey is old and drafty, and the thick stone walls leech away whatever warmth their tiny, cranky heater, provided by their hosts, manages to produce.

Nothing in the case really warrants Lauren's attention or expertise, truly. There's no miracle to be found: the Virgin Mary's image that appeared on the wall is easily enough to explain by the water damage and a mural on the opposite site of the wall, in a locked, dusty, forgotten room. But it was neither intentional fraud nor malice on the monks' part, just ignorance and excitement.

Their latest cases, colorful as they were, made them vigilant (sometimes, Hiraga secretly thinks, a bit exceedingly vigilant, on Roberto's part) and prone to looking for deeper plots and Galdoune conspiracies, but Hiraga truly believes that they're going to get up tomorrow, thoroughly disappoint the Abbot, offer their condolences and be on their way without any further excitement.

He wonders if Archbishop Saul sent them here as something of an obliquely stated reward. A vacation? Roberto had definitely enjoyed the library, and didn't even discover any malignant tomes with forbidden knowledge in them.

Still, writing to Lauren at the end of a day is a pleasant habit. It always helps Hiraga to put his thoughts in order, and Lauren's caustic commentary is entertaining every time, even when it's unkind. Roberto asked once if he worried whether exposing Lauren to their work contradicted Hiraga's missionary efforts with him, given their usual results. But what was there to hide? What could be more convincing than the rigorous effort they applied to make sure no false claim to Lord's glory slipped through their nets? Lauren learned not to doubt their dedication to truth, and his curiosity made him serve it with as much zeal as one could desire, for all his skeptic ways.

The letter sent, Hiraga gently pushes his laptop closed and uncurls from his chair, shivering when his bare feet hit the rough freezing stones of the floor. It's way too late at night, and Roberto is going to scold him tomorrow morning for the dark bags under his eyes.

Hiraga holds it's not his fault, though; once he's finished writing up the case, he's gotten caught up in looking up precedents, and jumped from there to the properties of the paints used in old Italian frescoes, and from there somewhere else, and before he knew it, it was deep into the night. This tends to happen to him a lot, as Roberto well knows; sometimes he intervenes directly, scolding Hiraga into bed like a recalcitrant child, and sometimes just he smiles gently at Hiraga in the morning and produces coffee from somewhere.

They're not in danger, though, and likely won't have anything more strenuous to do tomorrow than to flying back to the Vatican, so Hiraga thinks his chances of morning coffee instead of a scolding - with a side of Dramamine so the flight won't bother him - are pretty high. He smiles, imagining it. As always, Roberto's kindness is an endlessly reliable constant of grace.

He's halfway back to his bed when the especially vigorous gust of wind slams the window, proving to be too much for the fragile old latch; the windowframe bangs open with a sound not unlike a shot, and lets in a flurry of sharp snowflakes. Hiraga rushes over, banging his toe on the leg of the bed on the way and hissing under his breath, and wrestles with the casement for several increasingly frustrating minutes. His fingers, when he finally restores the frame to order, are red and painfully stiff.

He glances guiltily over at Roberto, half-expecting to find him awake, and sorry for it. But Roberto, to his relief, is still asleep; in the flickering light of their heater Hiraga can see the shadow of his eyelashes, long against is cheek. He turns away, ready to dive into his own bed and try futilely to warm his fingers and toes up, and then looks back at Roberto's prone form, curled up tightly beneath the blankets, and frowns.

He knows Roberto as well as it's humanly possible to know another person: which is to say that sometimes he feels like he can unfold Roberto's soul in the palm of his hand and trace every line of its pattern, and sometimes not at all. But this particular quality of Roberto's dreams, this stillness - this he knows well, after so many quiet nights spent like this one, in monasteries and dormitories and hotels, all over the world.

During the day, in their investigations and their interactions with other people, Roberto is inexorable like flowing water, effortlessly correct in all things social, and he is larger than life and affable. Hiraga can barely remember how it was to deal with people before Roberto came into his life: how complicated it was, how often, explaining ideas that seemed so natural and easy to him, he dismayed and confused everybody, and how often he offended when meaning to console, and amused when trying to offend.

Nowadays, shielded by Roberto's presence, he never has to worry about being misunderstood or misconstrued; he can just move forward freely, trusting Roberto to translate him and support him and smooth over any discontent left in his wake. Roberto makes it seem so effortless that sometimes Hiraga worries Roberto doesn't know just how much of a kindness, how true a service it is.

But during the nights, Hiraga had learned over time, when Roberto's dreams are troubled, he doesn't twist and turn, doesn't mumble or cry out. He makes himself small, holds himself still and rigid in his sleep. Like a small animal, hiding in some small and dark space, hoping to make himself invisible to some unseen foe.

Now, after that mess in Brazil that Roberto had barely escaped with his life intact, thank the Lord, Hiraga knows what stalks him through his dreams, what makes his breath become imperceptibly quiet and his long, graceful limbs rigidly still. He can trace the paths that brought Roberto to each such moment of imprisonment, from the terrified boy Hiraga's heart aches for to the steady man Hiraga knows, and this knowledge is a privilege and a terrible burden of sadness.

He can't guess at what brought those dreams to Roberto tonight - some memory of his mother, perhaps, jolted free by their case? Or maybe just the cold that permeates the air of their cell. Or maybe it's nothing in particular, just an unfortunate chain of neurons, sparking against each other. But he knows the reality of Roberto's suffering, and of his own responsibility to ease it.

If he wakes Roberto up, he knows, Roberto will surface apologetic, self-deprecating, embarrassed. It's one of those inescapable frustrations: Hiraga knows Roberto like he knows no one else, save maybe Ryota, and Roberto, in turn, knows Hiraga so clearly - so fully - and yet he's still unable to believe, deep where it matters, that this tragic history does not make him tainted in Hiraga's eyes. He'd avert his eyes, and lie about his dreams, and carry the weight of those lies with him into the next morning, ashamed and heavy with guilt, and find a way to stay awake as late as possible the next time they share a night.

But there are, thankfully, many ways to salvation. And so, instead of waking Roberto up, Hiraga slips into bed next to him, with as much grace as he can manage, and curls up behind Roberto, putting a light arm over Roberto's shoulder, slipping his hand under the soft cloth of Roberto's nightshirt. Under his palm, Roberto's heartbeat is slow, barely perceptible. Hiraga's frozen fingers flare up with grateful pain at the warmth of Roberto's skin.

 _Watch, O Lord, with those who wake, or watch, or weep tonight_ , Hiraga whispers quietly into the back of Roberto's neck, letting the words worn familiar with time and use carry all the warmth he carries inside himself over. _Rest Your weary ones..._

By the time he gets to _amen_ , mumbled out on a quiet exhale, Roberto's soft and pliant against him, his breathing steady. Hiraga smiles in the darkness, and follows him into sleep.


End file.
